


The call of the running tide

by amberfox17



Category: Marvel Avengers Movies RPF, Thor (Movies) RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Animal Transformation, Consent Issues, First Time, Fluff and Smut, M/M, Mythology - Freeform, Selkies, Sex Magic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-19
Updated: 2014-05-19
Packaged: 2018-01-25 18:44:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,648
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1658585
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amberfox17/pseuds/amberfox17
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Chris finds an injured seal, he recognises it as his friendly kayaking buddy from the Sounds, and brings it home to try and help it out. The seal looks like a lost cause, but to Chris's surprise, when he tries to bind the injury, the entire seal pelt comes away in his hands and he's left with a gorgeous naked man who is just as curious and friendly as a seal...Selkie AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The call of the running tide

**Author's Note:**

> In case you are unfamiliar with Selkies: [info](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Selkie) and [ art](http://mapvee.deviantart.com/art/Male-selkie-100636972) and a [Welsh spin](http://karadin.tumblr.com/post/83762471584/aquamarine-1-in-a-series-of-gemstone-meditation).

**The call of the running tide**

The small beach house reeks of fish and salt and damp fur, and there’s an ominously spreading bloodstain that is never going to come up from the laminate. In fact, when he looks more closely, the floor is covered in deep white claw marks, and he’s smashed two vases and a jug struggling inside with such a heavy weight in his arms.

There is no way Chris is getting his damage deposit back this year.

The seal doesn’t make a sound, which is far more worrying than the earlier pain-filled yelps and growls. Chris still isn’t sure what possessed him to pick the huge animal up – he knows he should have left it alone, called the RSPCA and let them handle it but – but, as stupid as it sounds, he _knows_ this seal, and when he saw it lying there, panting shallowly, hind flippers a mess of blood and jagged flesh, he couldn’t help going over. And then the seal had lifted his head and made the strangest crooning noise, almost as if it recognised him.

Chris has been coming to the Sounds for a couple of years now, spending five or six weeks down here in the summer, just surfing and kayaking and generally messing about in the sea, the salt and spray a tonic for all the crap that comes with his city work. He loves to be out in the open water, the endless expanse of sky bleeding into the white-tipped horizon the only balm he knows for the ache, the restlessness that plagues him. He has a half-baked dream of throwing everything else in his life away and moving down here, buying a little place high on the cliffs, the cry of the gulls his only alarm, the roar of the waves the only music to his ears.

But what he has instead is a standing booking for this little holiday home, perched halfway up the hill, overlooking a popular tourist bay. He never brings anyone else here, relishing the solitude he finds between the sea and sky; he’s on nodding terms with a few of the shop owners who recognise him, but otherwise he is entirely alone and that’s exactly how he wants to be.

Or, at least it was. But for the last two years, he’s had a regular visitor down here, a companion for his oceanic excursions: a grey seal, a youngish bachelor by the size of him, hanging about off Ramsey Island waiting to get big enough to try for a scrap of beach and a harem of his own. Every seal has a unique pattern of spots and whorls, as distinctive as a fingerprint once you get used to them, and this one’s been popping up whenever Chris goes out to the Bitches to shoot the white water for two summers now.

You can’t get much more adorable than a young seal and Chris had started keeping an eye out for him, pleased as punch every time the distinctive roman nose appeared off his bow. He’d been so friendly and so constant a presence that Chris has even started talking to him, shouting greetings over the water every time he saw the curious little face and big, expressive eyes, and the seal had come even closer at the sound of his voice, lifting a flipper and lolling his tongue out, for all the world like a big soppy dog. He’s cute as hell and Chris has been calling him Tom, after a retriever he had as a kid, and he’d swear the seal knows it’s his name. He’d never come in close enough to touch – or attack; very unlikely, but Chris isn’t stupid and Tom’s over six foot with mean fangs – so Chris hadn’t seen any harm in it. It’s not like he’s trying to tame him or anything.

But now, looking down at Tom, eyes glazed and body crooked where he’s sprawled out on Chris’s floor, half on and half-off the tarpaulin, he can’t help feeling this is somehow his fault. Tom’s obviously tangled with a boat in the bay and come off worse: he’s gotten too used to Chris, and by extension, people, and now he’s paying the price.

Well, Chris isn’t a vet, but he does know a thing or two about emergency first aid, the product of an adventurous youth, and he also knows the nearest RSPCA Wildlife Centre is three hours away by car. Tom’s been unbelievably docile in his arms, so he’s pretty confident he can mop up the worst of the damage, get some water and – tuna, or dog food, or something, maybe, inside him, and then he can give the authorities a call, like he should have done in the first place.

Chris kneels by Tom, mindful of his half-open mouth and impressive canines, and gently swabs at his blood-stained flippers. They’re pretty mangled, but Tom barely reacts, just sighing slowly when Chris runs his hands over the fragile bones. He can’t see any bone protruding from the deep gashes, which is good, but it doesn’t feel quite right either, too soft and spongy. Tom’s plump with blubber all over, a good, fat, healthy seal, but surely he should be able to feel more than this?

Chris squeezes a little harder, as carefully as he can, but Tom just sighs again, a long, mournful exhale. There is something very, very wrong with his flippers, Chris thinks, fear mounting. They feel boneless, soft and rumpled, more like a scrunched up blanket than an animal’s limbs. How will the seal be able to recover from this kind of damage? How will he ever swim again?

Chris sits back on his heels and swallows heavily. This is far worse than he had imagined – and he’s moved Tom, probably making his injuries worse, brought him into an alien environment, stressing him further, and he still hasn’t called the RSPCA – he’s probably bloody killed him, he realises, swallowing hard, or, at best, crippled him for life.

“I’m sorry,” he says huskily, leaving off his useless tending of the flippers to run a hand over Tom’s rotund belly, the fur plush and supple beneath his fingers. “I’m so sorry, mate.”

The fur parts like water.

Chris swears and jerk back, but it’s too late: all along the seal’s body a seam has appeared, the pelt parting like a zipper, unravelling down to where the flippers start, and snaking up along his chest and throat and under his jaw, the seal’s entire body rippling and teasing apart, splitting cleaning in two –

\- and a tall, slender man rolls out with a muffled grunt.

“Fuck,” Chris says blankly and the man – seal – Tom blinks huge, liquid eyes at him. They’re not the blank, animal black of the seal, but instead a rich, mutable sea-storm colour, shading from blue to green like the ocean in sunlight.

Tom makes a peculiar happy noise Chris can only categorise as ‘aroo’ and sits up, the seal skin slipping from his shoulders to puddle on the floor. He has a cloud of surprisingly fluffy blonde hair and long, elegant limbs, completely different to his plump seal body, but he does have a similarly aristocratic face and a dusting of honey-coloured freckles in the same places as his seal-fur’s spots.

He’s also stark bollock naked and grinning like a loon and an altogether more disturbingly form of cute than before.

“Aroo,” Tom says – yelps – again and tries to crawl forward, but his feet are still tangled in the sealskin and when he attempts to tug them free, he yelps again, much higher-pitched, and falls to the side.

“Easy, easy,” Chris says, instinct propelling him forward, and he catches Tom before he can fall. Tom slumps against his chest, panting again, face white with pain, and he flinches as Chris eases the flippers from around his ankles. They’re perfectly human, just like the rest of him, but swollen and puffy beneath the lacerations. The cuts aren’t as deep as they were in the flippers, and the injury doesn’t seem as bad, fractures, hopefully, rather than a break. Still, he won’t be walking for a while.

“Looks like you’re housebound,” Chris says as Tom looks up at him adoringly. “What the fuck have I gotten myself into now?”

Tom grunts happily and licks Chris on the chin before snuffling at his throat and chest. He catches the cord of Chris’s hoodie in his teeth and chews experimentally for a few moments before spitting it out in disgust.

“Not much of a talker, are you?” Chris says, looking around at the wreckage of his living area, still reeking of seal and blood, the tarpaulin and crumpled sealskin taking up nearly all of the free space. “Well, you’re clean enough, I guess, and we need to get your feet elevated, so…”

He keeps talking as he stands, despite a low ‘oof’ as he straightens up – Tom is no more a lightweight now than he was as a seal – and carries Tom through the tiny kitchen and into his bedroom. Tom seems happy to listen to his voice and he chatters inanely about what he’s doing as he puts Tom down on his bed and goes to fetch the first aid kit, bandaging his feet and ankles and then lifting them on to a cushion. Tom wriggles in a somewhat distracting way as he works, but he never stops smiling, not even when he hisses in discomfort.

But all too soon Tom is comfortably installed and Chris is left to perch on the edge of his own bed and stare at the blonde man smiling at him.

“You were a seal half an hour ago,” Chris says, the words even more surreal for being spoken aloud. “A goddam _seal_. Your _skin_ is on my living room floor.”

Tom exhales noisily at him.

“Christ,” Chris says, rubbing his face. “Either I’ve lost my mind, or there’s a seal-man in my bed. I don’t know which is worse.”

Tom hums thoughtfully, oddly musical, but doesn’t seem inclined to comment.

“I need a beer,” Chris says fervently. He gets halfway to the fridge in a few swift strides, but as he turns to open the door he moves out of the line of sight for the bedroom. Tom’s reaction is immediate.

It’s a spine-tinglingly eerie cry, a long undulating wail that breaks off in a far too human sob, and Chris shudders despite himself, the hairs on the back of his neck prickling as it repeats, again and again. It’s an unearthly noise, rising and falling, and he hurries back, desperate to make it stop.

Tom breaks off the moment he sees Chris and grins again, but his eyes are wide and fearful and he reaches out with his hands for the first time, grasping at thin air.

“Okay, it’s okay,” Chris soothes, coming back round, letting Tom grip clumsily at his top, pulling him in with surprising strength. “So you’re more scared than you look. That makes two of us.”

Tom shivers against him and Chris wonders what it must be like, shedding all that warm fur and insulating blubber for fragile human skin. He’s a little chilly now the evening’s drawing in, despite his warm hoodie and board shorts; Tom, naked and vulnerable, must be freezing.

He knows it’s a bad idea, but then, it’s not the first one today, so he tries not to think about it too much as he eases Tom away so he can slide in behind him, leaning him back against his chest and pulling the edges of the blankets up and over to make a cocoon for them. Tom watches trustingly and relaxes in his arms, crooning rhythmically as Chris rocks them slightly from side to side. Tom’s hair is plush and soft where his head rests just under Chris’s chin, and he smells of salt and spray and the tang of the sea.

“What the fuck have I gotten myself into?” Chris wonders aloud again, little more than a murmur, his words mingling seamlessly with the ebb and flow of Tom’s low croons. He really needs to get up, to go and – get a beer, or get his head checked out, get someone else to come over and confirm that yes, there is a tall blonde in his bed and a sealskin on the floor, or start googling ‘seal men’, _something_ to try and work out what on earth is happening here.

But it’s been a long day and Tom is warm and cuddly in his arms and the roar of the sea is a comforting song as he slips slowly into sleep, a curious peace settling over him.

Chris wakes to the sound of running water.

For a blissful moment he lies there in a fog of sleep, just listening to the splashing, almost drifting back into a dream of the sea – and then there’s a short, sharp bark, like a Labrador, and he abruptly remembers the seal and then the distinct lack of seal and arrival of naked man and he’s scrambling out of bed to look for Tom.

He stops at the bedroom door in dismay. The house has been _wrecked_.

Every single door, drawer and cupboard in the kitchen and living area to a height of about four foot has been opened and the contents dragged out and spread all over the floor, even the fridge and freezer. Anything that was in a bag has been ripped open and spilt, anything chewable has been chewed, especially the plastic milk cartons, which are now leaking day old milk all over the floor and cushions – which have also been chewed and gnawed and ripped and really, Chris had no idea you could do so much damage with human teeth.

Looking at the pattern of destruction, it seems obvious that Tom has dragged himself around without trying to stand, investigating everything he could grab from a half-seated position. He’s eaten a good chunk of Chris’s supplies, though he hasn’t tried the beer, thank god: the glass bottles were too high in the fridge for him to reach.

Tom barks again and Chris swings from the devastation towards the bathroom and the sound of water. Tom is lying next to the bath and staring at the running tap.

Who knows how he turned it on, or why, but he seems fascinated, especially as it’s a mixer tap and the hot water is steaming as it flows steadily into the bath and down the plug hole. His legs are curled awkwardly behind him, bandaged ankles held slightly up, in exactly the same way a hauled out seal holds up his flippers, and he’s managed to lift himself up enough to hand on to the edge of the bath with his hands.

“Do you actually _want_ a bath?” Chris says, since screaming incoherently at Tom won’t actually get the place cleaned up any quicker. Tom turns and yelps happily, falling to the floor and dragging himself over to Chris’s feet in a hopelessly ungainly bellyflopping movement.

“Being cute won’t help.” Chris says sternly but when Tom rolls over and yips at him, waving his hands like flippers, he’s forced to concede that actually, it kind of does. He’s very, _very_ conscious that Tom is naked and quite happily so, making no effort to be modest or cover his, ah, assets, and though he feels rather guilty about it, he can’t help having a good look. Tom looks perfectly normal, perfectly human –in fact, he’s a rather good-looking human, now that Chris is looking, with a charming smile and a lean, toned physique. He doesn’t look seal-like at all, just cute and attractive and – well. Best not to think about that too much, actually, as Tom rolls at his feet.

Well, there’s no point crying over spilt milk, peas, crisps, burgers and cushion stuffing, so Chris just shrugs and puts the plug in so he can run Tom a bath. Tom remains fascinated by the hot water pouring from the tap and pooling in the tub, and when Chris lowers him in, careful to keep his wounded feet dangling over the edge, his eyes get even bigger and he practically woofs as the warm water soaks into his skin.

“Bit nicer than the Atlantic, huh?” Chris says, and Tom slaps happily at the water with open palm, causing little waves to rush up and down and break over his freckled skin. Chris rolls his eyes, and turns his attention to Tom’s feet, unwinding the bandages to check on the cuts and swelling. It’s healing well – the flippers took the brunt of the damage after all.

Chris pauses and replays that thought. “You ok here for a minute, buddy?” he says as he stands and Tom smiles at him. Chris has no particular urge to hear the horrible wailing again though, so he keeps up a running commentary as he moves around the living area, barely aware of his own babble as he hunts for the sealskin. It takes him a while but eventually he spots a furry bundle shoved under the sofa and manages to retrieve it.

It’s a peculiar thing – he shakes it out and turns it over and over in his hands, but it seems little more than a blanket, or maybe a cloak, clearly made of spotted seal fur, but without any particular shape. There are no flippers now, no head or jaws, and, curiously, no damage either. It certainly doesn’t look like a whole seal’s skin, or big enough to enclose a six foot man. This isn’t something someone could put on like a wetsuit to trick people into thinking they were a seal.

He holds the heavy bundle in his hands and tries to think about this rationally. He _saw_ Tom come out of the seal – a seal he has known for over two years, has seen grow and eat and act like any other seal. Tom can’t be pulling a prank on him. It’s just too surreal.

Tom makes a querying noise from the bathroom and Chris calls back absently. He needs answers, but first, he needs to tidy his home, and second, he needs to keep looking after Tom, whatever and whoever he is. So he carries the pelt in to the bathroom and puts it at Tom’s side, just in case he is worried about it. Tom looks from the skin to him and makes an urgent noise, brow creasing, but he isn’t distressed and so Chris just pats him gently on the shoulder and leaves him to soak.

Thankfully, some of the food turns out to be salvageable, and a good hard scrub takes care of the rest of the mess, including the worst of the bloodstain from the night before. He gives up on talking to Tom as he works but Tom doesn’t seem to mind so much now, instead keeping up a babble of his own, less animal like than his noises so far, the same rhythmic crooning as the night before, a silvery, musical sound. Chris hums along from time to time, rather liking it, and soon enough, the house is clean and tidy and he can lift Tom from the bath.

He wraps him in a fluffy towel, conscientiously touching him only as much as he has to to get him dry, despite every impulse to the contrary when Tom licks him on the chin again, curls damp and dripping and eyes bright. Chris carries him bridal-style to the couch and then, after some yelping, works out what Tom is after and brings him his sealskin and something to eat.

Cooking kills a little more time, but once Chris has eaten his bacon sandwiches, Tom watching intently and then mimicking his every move, he’s left sitting on the sofa wondering what to do now.

“I wish you could talk to me,” he admits as Tom refuses to sit nicely at the opposite end and wriggles over so he can press himself against Chris. “I really don’t understand what is happening.”

Tom looks up at him, and for all his strangeness, there’s an intelligence there, a consideration, a human spark despite Tom’s obvious unfamiliarity with Chris’s world. If only they could communicate – there’s so much Chris wants to ask him.

Something of his frustration must show in his face, for Tom heaves himself up a little higher and places his palms on Chris’s cheeks, bringing their faces together and exhaling gently over Chris’s lips. Chris holds himself very still, heart hammering.

Tom whimpers and draws back, looking frustrated himself.

“I don’t understand,” Chris whispers, unsure of what to do with this sudden intimacy. Tom may be a beautiful man in his lap now, but that is not all he is, and without a common language, how is Chris to know what he truly wants?

Tom leans back, putting a little space between them, and lifts his hands away so he can trace a pattern under Chris’s eye: a simple, vertical line. He does one eye and then the other, looking serious, and then desperate as Chris just stares at him. He repeats the gesture under his own eyes and it looks – it looks like a sign for tears.

“Tears?” he say. “Crying?”

The words mean nothing to Tom but when Chris repeats the gesture and mimes crying he grunts loudly. “You want me to cry?” Chris says, baffled. What the hell for?

Tom’s signing for tears is growing more and more frantic, clearly pleading, and Chris chucks him under the chin. “Okay, okay,” he says, looking around and then extricating himself from Tom’s weight. “I’m not much of a crier, so let’s improvise.”

He feels like an absolute idiot, but there’s half an onion remaining in the fridge, and so he fetches it over and begins to pull it apart, rubbing his eyes as he gets it all over his fingers. “Sonofabitch!” he swears as the stinging starts but hey, it’s working.

“This what you wanted?” he says through blurry eyes, and as he blinks the first few tears drop on to his cheek. 

Tom licks them off, tongue warm and wet over his beard.

“Okay,” Chris says, a shiver running through him. “Okay, well. Um.”

Tom hums and licks him again, swallowing more tears, and Chris needs to stop this, this is completely out of hand and yet he does not, he simply sits, letting the tears slowly fall, inhaling the salty tang emanating from Tom’s skin.

After a few long, torturous moments, the tears stop and Chris’s vision is clear as Tom sits back and hums happily, pink tongue flickering over his lips.

“You okay?” Chris asks inanely, horribly aware of the fact that he is now half hard and probably reeking of onions.

“Ohhhh-kaaay,” Tom says, grinning hugely around the syllables. “Chrrrrrrisss.”

Chris’s jaw drops.

“Chrrisss,” Tom says again, the word sharper now, coming more easily. “Miiiine.”

“Tom,” Chris says giddily, seizing him by the shoulders. “Wow – you can – oh, this is amazing!”

“Chrrris,” Tom says again, leaning forward and locking his arms around Chris’s neck, purring the ‘r’ as his face fills Chris’s vision, tongue flickering out again, and that’s all the warning Chris has before Tom is kissing him, wet and messy and with far too much tongue, as if he’s never kissed anyone before and has no intention of ever _not_ kissing ever again.

There’s a faint brine tang in his mouth, not the taste of salt, exactly, but something of the exhilaration of the spray on a blustery day, the promise of the sea, perhaps, and Chris is so busy chasing the taste he doesn’t think about what he’s doing until Tom has dragged himself fully into his lap and is tugging impatiently at his top.

“Wait,” Chris says, struggling to break away, not really wanting to do so at all but feeling he must. “Tom, wait, we need to talk first.”

“Nooo,” Tom whinges and Chris has to place both hands on his chest and forcibly hold him off while Tom pouts at him. “Mine, Chrris, mine.”

“What do you mean, ‘mine’?” Chris asks, trying and failing not to notice that Tom has clambered out of the towel and is, once again, completely and utterly naked and exposed and wriggling for Chris’s attention.

“Loverrr,” Tom says, straining forward, hampered by where his bandaged feet are still tangled in the towel. He had the same trouble with his sealskin; it would seem feet are a novelty for him. “My loverrr now.”

It’s a hell of a proposition, especially from those plush lips. Chris shakes his head to clear it and Tom’s expression darkens.

“Loverrr,” he insists. “Tearrrs call Selkie. Selkie loverrr. Yourrrs.”

“But you’ve been following me for years,” Chris points out. “Alright, I’ve just cried for you – sort of – but you’re the one who came up to me out at sea.”

Tom gives a strangely musical sigh. “Love,” he says, biting off the end of the word. “Love bright human. Love Chrrris. Selkie cannot call Chrris. Tearrs call Selkie loverr. Chrris must call.” His speech is getting clearer now, the growling fading. “My Chris,” he says clearly. “Never call.”

“You came into the bay for me?”

“Yes,” Tom says, slumping against Chris’s outstretched palms. “Please. Magic – years for magic. Years. Make Selkie yours. For magic. My Chris.”

Chris stares at his hopeful face. “You did this for me?”  

“Love,” Tom says again, eyes limpid and luminous. “Please.”

Chris relaxes his arms and lets Tom fall into him, pressing into his body. “You’re a bloody idiot,” he says, mind reeling at the enormity of what Tom is saying.

“Love,” Tom says, pressing open mouthed kisses to Chris’s jaw and mouthing at his earlobe, the scent of salt growing stronger. Excitement crackles along Chris’s skin as Tom touches him, heat pooling in his belly, and there’s a strange languor building, a rising tide of desire, but one that has him wanting only to lie here, to let Tom do as he will.

“Love,” Chris echoes, trying to focus even as his arms come up to encircle Tom. “Tom, I – we don’t even know each other! This is insane!”

Tom shrugs, a wonderfully fluid motion, and trails kisses along Chris’s throat. “Time,” he says. “Time after. Selkie magic now.”

Tom’s just too tempting as he undulates in Chris’s lap, questing fingers finally finding the hem of Chris’s hoodie and working out that the offending fabric can be lifted up and out of the way. Tom bends his head and nuzzles at Chris’s exposed stomach, licking curiously at the defined muscle and rubbing his smooth cheek over Chris’s tanned skin.

“Selkie magic my ass,” Chris groans, head spinning, “that’s not what you’re after,” but there’s no heat in it. Tom has – somehow – managed all this just for him, and while Chris is too wary to put much stock in this love at first sight nonsense, it’s very clear what Tom wants right now – and it’s easy enough to give it to him. What’s a little more madness in all this?

“Come on,” he says, lifting a protesting Tom up. “Let’s do this right.”

Tom is confused for a moment, but as Chris scoops him up, he catches on. “Skin,” he says suddenly, “need skin.”

Chris dips him and Tom grabs the sealskin from the sofa; when they reach the bedroom he makes a fuss about the plush fur being spread across the bed so he can lie on. “Magic,” he says insistently, reaching for Chris, and Chris huffs a laugh at him.

“I don’t think that’s the word you’re looking for,” he says as he pulls his hoodie over his head and Tom sings out his approval. “But I’ll take it as a compliment.”

Tom stares at his nakedness with an open hunger, and Chris is sure his expression isn’t much better. He can’t remember now why he hesitated, not when Tom is so beautiful, not with his maddening scent filling the room, his pale thighs parting, stiffly at first, as if the movement is unnatural for him.

“Chris,” Tom says, eyes dark, “please.”

Chris goes to him.

Tom surges beneath him, hampered by his awkward legs but desperate to touch, to lick at as much of Chris as he can reach, exhaling noisily as Chris kisses his mouth, his eyes, his roaming hands. Tom shudders at every touch, body quivering at the new sensations, and Tom throws his head back as Chris strokes his flanks, teases lightly at his nipples and just skims his fingertips over the soft skin of his inner thighs, his wordless mewls music to Chris’s ears.

There’s so much Chris wants to do to all that pale flesh but he contents himself with chasing the honeyed freckles instead, mapping out the constellations patterned across Tom’s long limbs and lean frame as faithfully as any sailor seeking his way at sea. Tom undulates like a wave, overwhelmed and overwhelming, biting down on Chris’s neck when Chris’s hand finally strays to his hard cock. He’s wet, so wet, and the draw of the salty fluid is too strong to ignore.

Chris works his way down until he can lap at Tom’s erection and the moment his tongue touches the head Tom wails, that same eerie cry, but now burred and thickened with lust, and it resonates through Chris, leaving him shivering with desire. Yet that strange languor seems to have settled into his bones, and for all his thrumming _want_ , he moves slowly, easily, lapping at Tom’s cock with broad swipes of his tongue, easing only a little more into his mouth each time. The scent of brine and storm-clouds is strong here, mixed with a more familiar earthy musk, and Tom’s cock is heavy and welcome on his tongue.

Tom wails, his cry rising and falling higher and higher as Chris slowly bobs his head, teasing at his heavy balls and hollowing his cheeks, feeling the muscles in Tom’s thighs tense, perhaps for the first time. Tom’s back arches and his hips lift; it’s all the warning Chris gets before Tom is coming, cock leaping in Chris’s mouth, his thick, salty seed delicious on his tongue.

Tom pants frantically, chest rising and falling, eyes glazed and curls sticking to his forehead as he gazes adoringly at Chris. “Good?” Chris asks smugly.

Tom licks his lips and his eyes narrow. “Chris,” he says, vibrating the name through his chest, a promise of delight. Chris moves back up the bed, still caught in his slow, lazy spell, and settles beside Tom, unable to stop running his hands over his damp skin.

Tom lets him pet him as they kiss lazily, a little too lazily for Chris’s overheated state, but then Tom wriggles down the bed and it is Chris’s turn to lie back, the sealskin soft and warm against his back. Tom has none of Chris’s patience and simply pushes his face between Chris’s thighs and snuffling excitedly at Chris’s hard cock. In moments Tom is lapping at it enthusiastically, just as wet and sloppy as his kisses were earlier, and Chris groans as Tom lathes at him, soaking him in saliva.

Tom suckles at the tip, watching Chris intently, and as soon as Chris looks down, he swallows the entire length, seemingly with ease. Chris cries out, heat flickering over him, and then he is lost, carried away on the storm of his desire, his whole world reduced to the glorious sensation of wet heat and a talented tongue surrounding his cock.

The languid warmth surrounds him, buoys him up and carries him along, and he can only lay there, gasping, as Tom sucks him, murmuring happily around Chris’s flesh, holding Chris in a spell he cannot break. His orgasm builds and builds, cresting like a wave, until it must break and he cries aloud again as he comes, feeling Tom’s throat flutter as he drinks him down.

It is so intense he can feel sleep dragging him down immediately, and it’s all he can manage to respond to Tom’s hungry kisses as he returns to his side, a solid weight beside him as he falls into dreams, Tom’s croon a lullaby as comforting as the endless roar of the sea.

Chris wakes to the sound of running water.

“Not again,” he groans, flinging an arm over his head. He drags himself out of bed and looks out into the kitchen, fearing the worst – but Tom’s standing at the sink, butt naked and humming happily to himself as he washes the dishes.

“Chris!” he says, glancing over his shoulder. “Good morning!”

“Good morning,” Chris says hesitantly, the world off-kilter yet again.

“Did you sleep well?” Tom asks, putting down the dishcloth and drying his hands, perfectly normal and domestic and human.

“…yes?” Chris says, and then, because this is just too weird, “are you…Tom?”

Tom laughs and turns, pirouetting fluidly on his slim, uninjured ankles, and launches himself into Chris’s arms. “Oh, yes,” he says, eyes bright. “Your Tom forever and forever.”

“And…a seal too?” Chris says awkwardly, glancing back at the sealskin on the bed.

“Only sometimes,” Tom says, nuzzling into him. “That’s the magic, you see. No theft, no lies –  I have my skin and you know what I am. That means I can be human now, as long as I want to be, or a seal, as I choose. There’s no contract to break. I’m yours and you’re mine.”

“Oh,” Chris says, still bewildered, but with a growing happiness. “My Tom,” he says, trying out the weight of the words and deciding he likes them, feeling them quell some of the restlessness in his soul.

“My Chris,” Tom says, full of love and affection, sea-storm eyes shimmering, and Chris smiles as he bends his head for a kiss.

 

 

 


End file.
